


Afternoon Delight

by Ladycat



Series: Hustler'verse [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, PWP, Prostitution, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Distracted by Spike.  Because Spike is dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afternoon Delight

Xander’s shoulders are aching by the time he makes it to the door. A suitcase is supposed to hold papers, legacy to a generation of top hats and three-button suits and early machine guns stuck out of the window of ancient, beetle looking cars. Okay, so briefcases aren’t actually that connected with gangster movies, but that’s what’s stuck in Xander’s head as he lugs _his_ briefcase. The one that’s filled with his laptop, his gym clothes, enough papers to stuff a horse, and that’s not including all the other junk that manages to accumulate itself with in thin leather borders.

He’s spent the weekend working in the shed in the back, carefully crafting a cradle for the newest addition to the Scooby family. He enjoys the work, pouring himself into the fine grain of the wood so this little one will know who he is, no matter how often he does or does not visit. It’s tangible proof of his love, and Buffy adores it even though the pictures she’s seen are of half-built, unstained monstrosities, and she’s sure her daughter—no sonogram needed to tell the Slayer her child will be a girl—will love it too. Xander just smiles when she gushes about calling the baby Joyce, and ignores that he’s not twenty three, able to work all day and all night doing whatever he feels like it.

His shoulders _really_ hurt. He’s pretty sure other things hurt, as well, but lugging his work-things into the house only reminds him how _much_ his shoulders hurt. He’s tired and feels old and all he really wants is to come home to his bed. Whether it’s filled or not is irrelevant at this point. He wants to _rest_.

He never makes it upstairs.

The music is something Xander can’t identify. Eighties for certain, suffused with the irreverent bounciness that even the raunchiest of songs couldn’t shake free from. Pop, and silly, and _loud_ , the music winds its way through the house until the creaks are muffled, the sunshine peeking through here and there a little brighter. Hell, even the walls look glowy to Xander’s distracted eyes.

Distracted by Spike. Because Spike is dancing. Spike dancing is always something to watch, the way those arms and legs and sleek, smooth angles move and twist to the beat. The way his eyes sparkle the brightest blue of the summer sky, and a smile that sings of boyish adventure curls his lips. Spike dancing usually leads to Xander dancing, or at least wanting to, adrenaline already pumping through his body as he watches Spike shake and shimmy and bounce his way through the living room.

There’s a rag in one of his hands and a can of pledge in the other.

He’s also stark naked.

_“Marconi plays the maba, listen to the radio... ”_

Xander’s laughter starts out as giggles, unable to tear his eyes from the prancing spectacle of naked vampire cleaning. It climbs up from his belly, pulling all the pain and frustration of the day out as he chuckles and guffaws, leaning against the wall as Spike doesn’t stop. Spike can hear him laughing, of course. There aren’t any headphones to give him the excuse. But he continues to dance and clean and eventually even sing along with the music.

The living room is spotless and Xander is a tittering heap on the floor by the time Spike comes over and slides between Xander’s chest and Xander’s raised knees. “Hello, love,” Spike purrs. “Ready for a pre-dinner snack?”

His body feels lighter, strangely, occasionally tremors from left over laughter shaking his body. His face is hot, the skin tight from drying tears, but his arms go around Spike’s waist easily, the pain in his shoulders forgotten. “A pre-dinner snack? What are you gonna feed me, hm?”

Spike’s smile is sharp enough to cut steel, though his eyes remain lost in the sugar-pop that continues blaring around them. “Not feeding _you_ nothing, you fat bastard. Feeding _me_.”

Xander groans appreciatively as clever fingers open his pants, a cool body settling between his pushed-apart legs. The blow job is hard and fast, all about Spike’s driving need to taste Xander’s release. 

Or at least, that’s what Spike would say, if Xander asked. Good thing Spike’s sucking words as well as come out of Xander’s body, so he can’t.


End file.
